


Cold

by ladielazarus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 05:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8878255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladielazarus/pseuds/ladielazarus
Summary: Seamus really hates to be cold.





	

Seamus hates being cold. Actually, Dean often jokes that there are very few temperatures at which Seamus is comfortable. He also often jokes that there are few people who are as bad at handling discomfort. Seamus, being the typical product of an extremely temperate climate, doesn’t put on the best of faces when dealing with the extremes.

But, as much as Seamus hates being hot, he really hates being cold. They used to have snowball fights at school, but Seamus was always the first to give up and go inside. He also notoriously hated Hogsmeade weekends when it was snowing and Dean had often had to physically drag him down to the village. 

So, it should come as no surprise that, on the rare occasion that snow comes to London, Dean is responsible for any snow removal. Although, Seamus watches from the window with a very large blanket and a veritable vat of hot chocolate. (Hot chocolate being the only part of cold weather that Seamus likes.)

When Dean comes back in, he shucks his coat and heads into the bedroom to change out of his damp and wet clothing. Seamus has moved to the sofa now, and has another blanket. 

“I made you some hot chocolate,” Seamus offers, gesturing to the mug on the end table. “But, you can drink it over there. Don’t be coming in here with your cold feet and your cold hands and ruining my nice warm blanket pile.”

Dean rolls his eyes and comes over to the blanket pile anyway, climbing into the coccoon while Seamus grumbles and complains. Eventually, though, Seamus gives in and reverts to his standard position of attaching himself to Dean like some sort of barnacle. 

They just sit there for a few minutes, drinking their hot chocolate and enjoying a general atmosphere of having nothing, really, to do apart from be together. It’s sort of a rarity, these days, to have a weekend day to spend together without one of them having to work.

“So, I spoke to my mother about the wedding,” Seamus says, after a few more minutes. He’s finished his cocoa, by now, and Dean wordlessly passes him his mug so that he can have his, as well. “She says that she’s fine with doing it in England.”

“Good,” Dean nods, knowing that this isn’t the end of the conversation. “I’m fine with having a ceremony or something in Ireland, if you guys want, though. You know that, right? Even if it isn’t legal, we can still do it.”

“I know that,” Seamus nods. “I appreciate it, as well. It’s just that... Well, if I’m honest? Doing it there means that my dad might show up and... I don’t even know what.”

He moves even closer to Dean and Dean tightens his grip unconsciously. Things with Seamus’s dad have always been more than a little bit uncomfortable. Dean doesn’t speak very much Irish and that’s a strike against him to begin with. Then, there’s the fact that Dean is English, the unspoken issue of Dean being so very much not white and, of course, the fact that Dean is a bloke. Needless to say that Seamus’s extremely devout Irish Catholic father isn’t a fan of the whole situation at all. 

Sometimes Dean feels badly about that. Seamus likes girls, after all, and it’s difficult not to see the whole thing as if Dean has done some sort of... damage, here. He’s ruined any chance that Seamus has had of having the life that Ciaran always wanted for his son. It’s hard not to let that sink in once in a while, no matter how much Seamus protests.

“Stop it,” Seamus says insistently, leaning up to press a quick kiss to Dean’s neck because it’s easily within his reach. “I can tell you’re thinking about Da. Stop. He’ll say what he’s going to say about it. Besides, it’s not like he’ll be there.” 

“You can invite him, if you like,” Dean offers, knowing that he won’t, but feeling like he has to make the offer. 

“I won’t. Besides, look on the bright side. Whatever he says, it’ll be in Irish, and you won’t be able to understand a word of it.” Seamus is smirking, now, and Dean feels somewhat relieved that they aren’t settling into an atmosphere.

“Hey,” he protests, a grin breaking out on his face. “I can say some words. I know the word sneachta.” 

“...Snow?” Seamus asks, snorting. “Of all of the Irish words you could learn, you’ve learned the word for snow?”

“You spend a lot of time bitching about it, Shay. I’ve learned to appreciate your bitching in every language,” Dean laughs and presses a kiss to Seamus’s head. “Now, I say you put on your fourteen layers of clothing, and we go out for a short walk. It’s sort of nice out, even if it is snowing, and we can go down the park and have a snowball fight or something.” 

“Your pronunciation is terrible,” Seamus says, but there’s no real accusation in it. There are a few more minutes while he considers. “Can I have more cocoa when we get back?” he asks, as though suspicious. 

“You can have cocoa, a hot bath, and a personal servant who will do whatever else you need to retain your ridiculously high body temperature requirements,” Dean snickers, and he can feel Seamus giving in. 

“Fine. Fine,” he grumbles, slowly extricating himself from their blanket coccoon. “We can go. But, don’t be thinking that it’s all because you know the word for snow.”

“Of course not.”


End file.
